She’d belonged to someone else all day.

Her sister as they climbed the built-in, unintentional playground of a nearby rock mountain all morning long.

Her father as he taught her how to play Uno at the picnic table in the afternoon.

She belonged to her grandparents as they walked down to the beach with her, letting her dip her feet in the Pacific.

Her new friends as they played playdough and rode scooters after dinner.

She belonged to her auntie as she helped her balance along a fallen tree.

It seemed like she only belonged to me when she needed to use the campground restroom, hiking the 50 yards over dirt piles trying to skirt the tent strings without tripping. She belonged to me when she needed the “dirt beard” that had gathered on her chin wiped. She was mine when it was time to change her dirty clothes into a clean set that would become dusty and stained almost as soon as she stepped out of the tent.

The rest of the day, during our flashlight walks and nature center discoveries, through our trips to the valley farm and our peach picking in the orchard, she belonged to everyone else.

But at night in front of a campfire that would irrevocably infuse our clothes and hair with the scent of woodsmoke, she brought me a blanket and settled into my lap.

And then, finally, she belonged to me.

She’d reached the end of her three-year-old energy and needed to recover in my arms. She belonged to me when it mattered. She belonged to me at the soul-level that counts. She was done seashell hunting and feeding farm animals, and I guess, just needed her Mama.

And I was there, ready. Waiting to bury my nose in her camp smoke-smelling hair. Waiting to kiss her dirty hands, sticky with leftover s’mores. I was ready to hold her as she fell asleep.

I was there when she was done belonging to everyone else.

I have the attention of a three-year-old.

She sits down close and in older-than-toddler, but not-quite-kindergarten speech she asks me

“Whatcha wanna talk about?”

I leave it up to her. And I smile.

“Butterflies!” she answers with a mouth full of strawberry granola bar.

“Sure,” I say. “Do you like them?”

But then she is distracted by the book at her feet and the Disney characters on her bowl and gets up and walks away. She forgets to answer and we never do have that discussion about butterflies. I try to ask her again if she wants to talk, but she’s gone to the other room now.

And I’m sitting here alone thinking about butterflies from a three-year-old, 40 inch perspective. She’s given me her full attention and then just as quickly, it’s gone again. It seems like I’m learning to fit around the edges of her. I ebb where she flows and constantly readjust to the changes in her mood and sentiment.

I can’t help but wonder if that is what our near and far future will be like. Her: excited about life and the newness of it all, not sure where she ends and the world begins. Me: in patient flux responding to the changes of a young woman.

So maybe I can learn now to rush up like the sea when she pulls back, and then retreat when she needs room to expand.

I’ll be free to talk about butterflies or boys or broken hearts when she needs me, and when she thinks she doesn’t, I’ll delicately dance around the edges of her ready to be needed again.

At the playground yesterday afternoon, Naomi climbed up to the tallest castle tower of the play structure and in her loudest three-year-old voice, begged the rest of the kids to rescue her.

Anyone?

Any takers?

Crickets…

Ahem, let me try that again.

“Save me!! I’m a princess. In a tower. Save me!!”

The sound of shovels digging in playground sand, kids shouting to each other on the basketball court, gravel crunching as bicycles ride by. Silence. Nobody to save her.

She wanted to play a game that no one else was willing to play. And at the very least, her own imagination was so supple and deep, that no other sub ten-year-old was willing to enter her save-the-princess-in-the-tower world.

Her feelings weren’t hurt. Nobody came to her rescue so she slid down the nearest slide and started digging in the dirt. No harm, no foul and very quickly forgotten.

She didn’t really need saving. But if she did, if she’d fallen and hurt herself, I would have been there in an instant, ready to help. Ready to comfort and to aid.

The thing is, we serve a God who is always ready. He doesn’t ignore our “save me” pleas from the tallest tower. He certainly does not go about playing basketball or riding bikes when someone is in need. He responds quickly.

He stops what He is doing. He listens. And He saves.

Even the three-year-old in the princess tower who just wants her voice to be heard.

He loves to do it.

Watch.
I watch her watch the world. Her sister. The cat. With her three-year-old gaze, she watches the garbage truck and the school bus with intensity. She watches the letters on the signs and locates N’s where ever she goes. She has keen eyes for noticing detail. She watches far closer the world than I even seem to watch her. My eyes glaze over and I see only the big things, or the wrong things. She sees it all, or at the least, what is important.

Run.
She runs to the car, the park, the door when her father comes home. She runs laps around the living room five minutes before her bed time. And so many days I run to keep up with her… or I run right past her. I try to get everything done by running, and I miss her. Her running, unlike my own, is purposeful. Intentional. She has goals: a snack from the kitchen, a trip to the toilet, a trip down the slide. So often I run without meaning.

Rest.
This little one knows how to rest. When she’s tired, she asks to be picked up, lays her heavy forehead on my shoulder and sinks into me. She stops on the sofa and picks the softest pillow, drags her blankie down from her room and goes to sleep. I only rest when I can, at night, and even then I still work: making lists in my head for the next day as I drift off to sleep. I don’t rest like she does.

I have so much to learn.

I’ve had different names in my life.

I grew up with the German-derived maiden name “Siebert” that no one could ever pronounce right. Say SEE-bert and not SIGH-bert. Its uncommon enough in California that we could always sniff out a telemarketer’s call by the pronunciation of our last name.

I turned into “Mrs. Markley” when I was far too young to feel worthy of being called the same name as my mother-in-law. When seniors in high school called me “Mrs. Markley” as a student teacher barely 5 years older than them it always sounded strange. When I landed a job as a middle school Language Arts teacher, the “Mrs. Markley” sounded better from twelve-year-old lips.

My husband calls me “Princess” (my favorite) sometimes and of course “Honey” and “Sweetheart”, all names I love. And Sarah. From his mouth, my name sounds the best. And I’m lucky because I’ve always loved my first name, Sarah, even though it was very common growing up. In fact, in my elementary school class I was one of 3 Sarahs (out of 25 or so students) so I became “Sarah Si.” And even though I was “Sarah SEE-bert”, with my last name shortened, I answered to “Sarah SIGH” for many years.

Last night as I was tucking her in, my three-year-old persisted to call me “SARAH”. “And,” she said, “Daddy is CHAD!” To her, our first names have potency. They are what we call each other. They are what others call us. To utter our given names is to wield a sort of power that a little girl normally doesn’t have.

That is when I realized what my real name was.

I told her my name was “MAMA.” This was the only name she needed to know because it was my real name; it was the name of my heart.

I’ll always respond to “Sarah” and “Mrs. Markley” certainly until the day I die. I might even turn around to “Sarah SIGH” once in awhile. But the name I claim today, the one that is closest to my heart, is MAMA.

My Naomi turned three yesterday.

And when she woke up on Saturday, her crazy bedhead taking over her face, I wished her a happy birthday and asked her how old she was.

“Two-anna-haff.”

“No baby, you’re three today!!”

“TWO-ANNA-HAFF!!” (this time angry).

“Alright, sweetie, you can be two still if you want.”

I’m not sure if she will embrace her three-ness today or not. I haven’t checked. But by the time I was putting her to bed last night, she was exhausted.

2 cupcakes + 3 bowls of tortilla chips + too much gift wrap x 1 giant purple castle bounce house = a half an hour tantrum at 7:45 in the evening.

She didn’t want to brush her teeth. She didn’t want her father, she didn’t want me either. She yawned while she screamed to stay up later. She peeled her pajamas off and wouldn’t be redressed. Finally, she asked me to hold her like a baby and then she curled up in the middle of her big girl bed.

She wouldn’t slip under the quilt like a little girl, but wanted to sleep on top like an infant, with her one special blanket over her. Frustrated and trying to stretch it, she couldn’t seem to make it fit over her three-year-old limbs. She finally gave in and closed her eyes, with her feet sticking out of the bottom and her elbows protruding from the sides.

It was as it she wasn’t ready to be three yet.

I know this is only one episode in the constant battle of maturity and childishness in little hearts and bodies. Sometimes I’m not ready to give up my baby blanket either, trying to stretch what fit last year over a more grown up heart and mind. Sometimes I don’t want to be the one in charge. Sometimes I don’t want to be the one who locks the doors and checks the windows at night. Growing up brings so much more responsibilities.

But you can’t stop time, especially with little girls (or with Mamas). And when she’s ready, I’m sure she’ll announce with courage that she is now three-years-old.

Naomi screams. She yells. She thrashes around and screams again. She kicks and throws things. She is almost 2, and she’s been stuck on an airplane for almost 10 hours.